Fire and Water
by aletheakatherine
Summary: The Hunger Games are over, and her wings have been burnt; and now she's left alone to pick up the ashes of what's left. (What if Finnick had survived?)
_The war killed us all, in soul and in heart_

 _Bone from bone, ripped us apart_

It's been months, almost a year, but the memories are harsh and vivid as if it only happened yesterday. The mutts, glaring me in the eyes, ready to rip my throat out; Finnick, in between them and me, ready to die. The thing is, we're already dead. They can't hurt us anymore. I remember Johanna Mason's words at the Quarter Quell- " _What?_... _There's no one left I love_." And Finnick's girl, Annie, dementia-ridden, eventually dead. Then there's Peeta, killed by the Capitol-first in soul, then in body. Gale, who left me for some get-up at the Capitol once the war was over.

Of all of the people in current-day Panem, I only recognize a few anymore. Finnick. Johanna. Prim. The rest are all gone. Dead.

I live with Prim now, in one of the newly-built houses where once stood District Twelve. Prim is out today, gathering flowers with Buttercup. I don't expect her back till sunset, so naturally I jump a little when I hear a knock at the door. Life has taught me to be suspicious and wary, so although it's probably perfectly safe, I only open the door a smidgen at first. But at the sight of the young man casually chewing a sugar cube on my porch, I throw the door wide and step aside, letting him pass. "Finnick," I say slowly, watching him warily.

"Hey, Katniss," he says, adopting the husky, alluring voice he'd used when we first met. "Want a sugar cube?"

I cross my arms. He shrugs, stepping a little closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You sure?" He holds a cube out, tempting, and finally, with a little smile of resignation, I take it, slipping it into my mouth. He grins at me, although his eyes are sad, and steps back. Despite outward appearances, he's not the same person as the Finnick Odair of the Quarter Quell, I think sadly, focusing on the almost overwhelming sweetness of the sugar cube against my tongue.

"Why are you here, Finnick?" I ask curiously.

His words come out broken and jagged, like shards of glass, cracked and broken beyond repair. "I still have nightmares about those days, Katniss. In the Games, at the Capitol, when Annie died...and it never goes away. I wondered if-I know you have had the same experience, the same nightmares, and I thought maybe being with you might help, might help it all go away."

"Oh, Finnick," I say with a humorless laugh, "you know I'm horrid at making people feel good."

"No…" he says, shaking his head. "No, you're not. At least, not for me."

I tip my head questioningly, bewildered.

"See," he continues, "you and I-we have something in common. We know how it feels. No one else understands, except for Prim and Johanna-and Prim's too young, and Johanna's too angry to help. I wish I were Johanna. At least she's not just broken and dull and ruined. She's angry, energized, lively, but not dead. Somehow she survived, and we didn't. It killed us, but not her. So even she...she can't help. Only _we_ can help each other."

I've never been a comforting person to be around, but after Finnick's words- _so true_ -I can't help myself. I step forward and pull him into a hug, as if my embrace could wish away all of our fears and nightmares and agony. I feel Finnick's heartbeat drumming against my own, his fingers tangled in my braid, and when I glance up I can see tears glimmering against his cheek. Finnick Odair is crying. Just like he did when Mags died, and when Annie died.

He's right, the war's broken him just like it broke me. We're no different from each other, in a way. I move back, releasing Finnick, and impulsively I reach up to brush the tears away from his eyes. He's a beautiful person-good, loyal, selfless, honest, intelligent, strong-despite the Capitol's best efforts to taint him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Katniss!" I hear from the door, and the sharp knock that follows. I give Finnick a watery smile, and he nods at the door. A moment later, Prim steps in, bright-eyed, her hands full of flowers and herbs, unaware of Finnick's presence. "I got all of the flowers for Delly's wedding, and-" I wince, just as Prim suddenly notices Finnick and cuts herself off, eyes widening. "Oh," she says. "Oh...Finnick. Sorry." She curtsies, with a small smile, and Finnick grins back.

"It's all right," Finnick reassures, although I could see the flash of pain in his eyes when Prim mentioned the wedding. Another happy couple soon to be married, and their union would not be broken, not like Finnick's with Annie. He smiles from me to Prim. "It's all right. Katniss is helping me heal, besides." He turns that smile back to me.

Prim's eyes brighten again, and I laugh lightly. "Thank you," she says to Finnick, and nods to me. "Katniss, I'm going to go get dinner ready. I'll leave you two in peace." She heads towards the kitchen, and pauses in the doorway. "Oh...should I set a table for three?"

Finnick looks like he's about to protest, but I nod at Prim, and she grins, rushing off. "You didn't have to," Finnick says reluctantly, his voice quiet and serious. "I don't want to impose on you, Katniss...if you'd rather me not stay for dinner, that is." He glances at the kitchen, and back at me, and I shake my head.

"Finnick…" I say, "I think maybe the company will do me good. If you don't mind, that is."

His eyes sparkle for a short, beautiful moment, and the husky flirtatiousness returns to his voice. "Of course not, Katniss," he says, winking at me.

Finnick is back, if only for a fleeting moment.

 _The fires burned and we rose in flame_

 _Then we fell, crippled and lame_

That night after dinner, Finnick sits in our living room, lounging on the couch. I finish washing the dishes with Prim and slip in next to him, silent with thought. "I wonder if we'll ever rebuild our lives," I say slowly. "We don't even have a family. Peeta and Annie-with them gone…"

"It's not entirely out of the question," Finnick shrugs. "Your friend Gale seems to have moved on pretty well, I'd say."

Prim sits across from us. "At least we have each other, and Johanna. That's a little like a family, isn't it?"

I snort. "Yeah, a family of wretches who should've died. We shouldn't even be here. We deserved -" I stop suddenly, realizing what I've just said. It's out of line, but I'm not thinking when I blurt it out, and once it's been said it can't very well be unsaid. I cross my arms and draw away from Finnick, my eyes on Prim only, although I know that I probably just caused Finnick to hate me. As I said-I'm not really a comforting person.

"Don't say that, Katniss," Prim admonishes gently, trying to undo the hurt of my statement. "Finnick isn't a wretch...he's a friend, isn't he? Someone worth knowing. He wasn't meant to die." Even as she says this, I see the pain in Finnick's eyes, and I feel immediately guilty. Prim reaches for Finnick's hand, but he shakes his head, stiffening, standing abruptly.

"No. Katniss is right. We should be dead. _I_ should be dead."

Prim sighs, stands, leaves. I watch her go, accepting the angry look she gives me-it's justified, after all-and get up, taking Finnick's hand. "Finnick," I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean it that way."

"But it's the truth," Finnick says dully, his eyes distant. He looks so absent, as if wings of thought have carried his mind aloft and away, and he's not really listening to me. I hate myself then. Finnick is my friend, a good person, and I'm making him detest himself, I'm making him tell me he should be dead, that he wishes he were dead. It makes me feel horrible, but honestly, I'm not sure what to say, how to make it better. What a horrid excuse for a human I am...

"Finnick, no one wants you dead," I say firmly. "And Annie wouldn't want you to think like this."

Finnick looks at me, glaring. "That's the thing," he says. "I don't think it's Annie anymore."

And he leaves.

 _I would be dead if not for you_

 _Let me give you this promise of life, too_

I tell Prim about it the next day, about what Finnick said after Prim left the room. "What do you think?" I ask. "What did he mean about Annie?"

"I don't know," Prim says. "I don't know...I can't make sense of it. He was just upset, Katniss." Her eyes harden. "You upset him."

"I know...I'm sorry," I say, running my fingers along my braid, staring at my red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. "I know." I glance at Prim. "But it's so hard. Every night the nightmares-they tell me I'm worthless and-"

"They don't _tell_ you anything," says Prim. "They're just dreams." She looks at me. "But since you mentioned them, why don't you go over to Finnick's? You can apologize, and maybe try to comfort him, since you two _do_ have these things in common." She watches me carefully, sweet and forgiving but also responsible and independent, like the girl I should've been-not broken and fragile but strong and supportive, gentle and kind. I nod.

Finnick lives around the corner from us. His house is quite unremarkable, but inside it's very unique: decorated with fishnets and fish-hooks and knots, stuff reminding him of home, and of Annie. When he comes to answer the door, I notice his eyes are red like mine, and although he gives me a smile, it is a fractured smile.

"Finnick…" I say. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said that last night-I'm so glad that we did survive, that you're here…"

He surveys me for a long moment, looking me up and down, then nods. "Yes. Me too." He gestures me inside. "Katniss, I think I have some explaining to do, too. What I said last night, about Annie...I don't know how to explain it, but I feel almost liked I've moved on from her. That's all I meant." There's something deeper, more meaningful, expressed in his gorgeous sea-green eyes, but I can't tell what, and I know he won't say, even if I ask.

So I just nod, and meet his eyes, concerned. "The nightmares," I say. He just nods, and beckons me to his bedroom. We sit on the bed, side by side, in an awkward silence. I don't know how to be friends, I've never been good at it, and Finnick doesn't seem to be having much better luck after the way the war destroyed him.

At last, Finnick says, "Sometimes I feel like I _should_ have died, though. How-how am I still here, with you and Johanna, yet Annie and Peeta, Mags, they are all gone? And sometimes I wonder how we manage to live with ourselves…with no one left to love us, or for us to love."

"Finnick...that's not true," I say, scooting closer to him on the bed. I hold his hand in mine, because he is my friend and I can't let him think this way. Johanna and Finnick are friends: to be sure, I don't love them as I love Prim, but they are still most of what I have left. "Don't tell yourself that, Finnick. There are people here who _do_ care about you, who love you and want you to heal, and want you to be the way Finnick Odair should be, to have the life Finnick Odair should have been able to have, without all of the war and the misery."

"Who?" he asks, dully.

"Well, Johanna, for one," I begin, but he shakes his head immediately.

"Not Johanna. She's a friend, and we care for each other, but I don't love her, and she doesn't love me. We both wish the other might have had a better life, but neither of us is torn apart by the other's agony-neither of us is as close as Annie was to me, or Peeta to you. So no, not Johanna. And if not Johanna, then no one." He looks hopelessly at me.

"No…" I say. "Not no one, Finnick. There's always someone."

"Then who?" Finnick says, and I am tongue-tied for a moment, unable to answer, because at first, I don't _have_ an answer. Then the truth dawns on me, slowly at first, then more quickly; all at once, like a slap in the face, like the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder.

"Me," I say softly. "Finnick... _I_ love you."

I caress his cheek lightly, and he smiles at me, a hint of life sparking at the edges of his eyes. He stands slowly, lost in thought. He is truly beautiful-graceful and wiry, lean and slender, his sea-green eyes deep with emotion and intelligence; not a brainless flirt at all, but more like a sea-god, someone immortal from another world. I'm standing next to him, now, too, watching him, and he's watching me, carefully.

"So…" he says gently, his voice sly, low and alluring as if he were about to offer me a sugar cube; "what are you going to do, Girl on Fire?"

"It's Mockingjay now," I say, and I capture his lips in mine.

 _I'm so lost, yet I've just been found_

 _You taught me how to survive when I almost drowned_


End file.
